Discarded By Him, Claimed By The Zillionaire
I was Landon Mercer's secret girlfriend and loyal assistant for four years. I thought my absolute devotion would eventually win his heart.
But he casually announced his engagement to a wealthy heiress, reminding me I was just a convenient nobody from an orphanage.
When I got trapped in a horrific car crash and begged him to call an ambulance, he just hung up on me, annoyed that my bleeding was ruining his romantic getaway.
He even blackmailed me with my orphanage's land lease, forcing me to attend his engagement party as a prop.
At the party, his elite family and friends brutally humiliated me.
They deliberately crushed my broken arm, poured red wine over my head, and kicked me into a freezing pond.
When Landon finally pulled me out, he didn't care that I was suffocating and turning blue.
"Are you out of your mind? You come out here and cause a scene during my engagement party?"
He threw a stack of cash at my shivering body, furious that I had embarrassed him in front of his wealthy guests.
Looking at the hundred-dollar bills floating in the muddy water, my four years of foolish love completely died.
To him, I wasn't even human; I was just a cheap toy he could abuse and pass around.
I didn't cry, and I didn't beg.
I dragged my soaked, battered body into a car and headed straight to the penthouse of his biggest billionaire rival.
It was time to burn Landon Mercer's world to the ground.
Chapters
Share
Chapter 8
The black Maybach rolled up the long, winding driveway of the Mercer family estate in Concord. The massive wrought-iron gates stood wide open.
The driveway was lined with Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and black SUVs. The entire Boston elite had gathered for the spectacle.
Vivian stepped out of the car. She pulled a thin trench coat tightly around her shoulders, trying to hide the exposed skin of the red dress against the biting autumn wind.
The main house was brilliantly lit. A massive white tent covered the back lawn, and the elegant notes of a string quartet drifted through the cold air.
The moment Vivian stepped into the grand foyer, the atmosphere shifted. Dozens of eyes locked onto her. Whispers erupted behind crystal champagne flutes.
Her bright red dress clashed violently with the sea of conservative black, navy, and silver gowns worn by the old money crowd. She felt the physical weight of their disgust pressing down on her chest.
She scanned the room and spotted Landon near the fireplace, laughing with two state senators.
Landon saw her. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second before he deliberately turned his back to her, leaving her completely exposed to the wolves.
Whitney Astor-Kensington glided across the room in a stunning white haute couture gown. She wrapped her arm possessively around Landon's waist, claiming her territory.
Vivian's throat tightened. She turned to retreat into the shadows near the hallway.
A hand holding a glass of champagne suddenly blocked her path. The golden liquid sloshed, nearly spilling onto her dress.
Maelie Mercer stood there, flanked by Hayden Kensington and Sloane Bishop.
Hayden, Whitney's notoriously sleazy younger brother, let his eyes drag slowly up and down Vivian's body.
"Look at this," Sloane laughed, her voice shrill. "Did you get lost on your way to the strip club?"
The guests nearby stopped talking. They turned their bodies toward the commotion, their eyes gleaming with cruel entertainment.
Vivian clenched her good hand into a fist. She tried to step around them, but Maelie shifted her weight, blocking the exit.
Maelie leaned in close. "You really have no shame, do you? Just like that night at BU."
The letters BU hit Vivian like a physical punch to the gut. All the blood drained from her face. Her lungs seized.
Four years ago at Boston University. She had stood up to Maelie's clique. In retaliation, they had stripped her clothes off and locked her in a pitch-black basement for an entire night.
Hayden leaned close to Vivian's ear. He whistled softly. "You look even cheaper now than you did crying in that basement."
A violent wave of PTSD crashed over Vivian. The elegant string music warped into the echoing sound of their laughter from four years ago. The room started to spin. Cold sweat broke out across her back.
She looked desperately toward the center of the room. Landon was looking right at her. He saw the panic in her eyes. He saw Maelie cornering her.
Landon frowned slightly, then turned back to the senator and raised his glass.
The absolute betrayal froze Vivian's heart. He had brought her here specifically to be slaughtered.
Maelie saw Vivian's hope die. She smiled wickedly. She reached out and violently yanked the trench coat off Vivian's shoulders.
The coat hit the floor. Vivian's bulky arm cast and the completely bare back of the red dress were exposed to the entire room. Several guests gasped audibly.
Before Vivian could react, Sloane stuck her foot out and kicked Vivian's ankle hard.
Vivian lost her balance. She crashed heavily onto the hard marble floor. Her kneecaps hit the stone with a sickening crack.
The sheer, agonizing humiliation swallowed her whole. She lay on the floor, surrounded by the pointed toes of expensive designer shoes.
Maelie looked down at her. "Get out to the backyard," she ordered coldly. "Don't bleed on my mother's rugs."
Keep Reading
The story is getting intense! Switch to App to
Unlock All Chapters
You may also like
8.8
I woke up in a penthouse suite at the Pierre with a hangover from hell and a naked man who looked like he'd been carved from marble. Thinking he was a high-end escort I couldn't afford, I left my last hundred dollars and a petty note on the nightstand.
"Service was acceptable. Keep the change."
But when I rushed home to check on my dying father, I found the locks changed and my boyfriend, Chad, draped over my stepsister on the landing. My stepmother, Meredith, didn't even look up from her coffee as she handed me a legal folder.
She told me to sign away my inheritance or she'd stop paying for my father's life support. The hospital called seconds later, demanding fifty thousand dollars by the end of the day, or they'd pull the plug.
Meredith had already arranged my "payment": a dinner with Boris Gorsky, a predator who collected young women like trophies. I was being sold to a monster to keep my father alive, standing in a thrift-store dress while my family laughed at my ruin.
I didn't understand how my life had collapsed in twelve hours, or how my own blood could put a price tag on a man's life. I sat at that restaurant trembling, waiting for the man who would buy my soul.
Then the man from the hotel walked in. It wasn't Gorsky; it was August Sanders, the billionaire CEO of a media empire, and he was holding my hundred-dollar bill.
He didn't want an apology; he wanted a contract wife for a year. He slid a confirmation for a five-hundred-thousand-dollar hospital deposit across the table and handed me a fountain pen.
"Welcome to the firm, Mrs. Sanders."
I signed the paper with a shaking hand, knowing I was trading my freedom for my father's life. But as August handed me his black card, I realized I finally had the weapon I needed to destroy the people who thought I was nothing.
8.1
I was the "fallen princess" of New York, living in a charcoal silk cage while paying off my father’s millions in debt with my own body. My owner was Braxton Kensington, a man who looked at me with the same cold interest he gave a fluctuating stock graph.
One morning, a New York Times alert shattered the silence: Braxton was getting engaged to a billionaire socialite in the merger of the decade. When I demanded my freedom and the five-million-dollar severance promised in our contract, he just smirked and pointed to the fine print.
"In a court of law, an engagement is just an intention," he whispered, gripping my chin until it bruised. "Until I sign that marriage license, you belong to me."
He flicked a black AmEx at my feet like I was a tragic charity case, ordering me to buy a dress for his engagement gala. To save my dying mother from eviction, I took a secret translation job, only to realize my client was his new fiancée, Caroline. She dragged me to Braxton’s office to humiliate me, and after he hid me in a secret room to avoid a scandal, he branded me a "security risk" and froze every cent I had.
I stood in a CVS with my last sixty dollars, swallowing a Plan B pill dry while watching a news report about Braxton demolishing my family’s last legacy. He didn't just want my body; he wanted to erase my entire existence and leave me with nothing.
The cruelty was breathtaking, but Braxton forgot that a woman with nothing left to lose is the most dangerous player in the game. I reached out to the only man he truly feared—his billionaire half-brother and the boy whose heart I broke years ago, Ansel Neal.
"Coffee isn't enough," Ansel replied to my message in seconds. "Dinner. Our old spot. 8 PM."
As I walked into the club to meet Braxton's greatest rival, I knew the game wasn't over. I was just changing the rules.
9.1
Alysia lay on the freezing operating table, moments away from donating her kidney to her brother's fiancée.
But as the anesthesia set in, a violent shock tore through her brain, awakening agonizing memories of a thousand brutal deaths across a thousand past lifetimes.
She suddenly realized her family's true plan. Her brother and his fiancée weren't just taking her organ; they were secretly plotting to declare her mentally unfit post-surgery to steal her entire trust fund.
When Alysia abruptly stopped the procedure and exposed the fiancée's kidney failure as the result of severe drug abuse, her family's reaction was chilling.
Her father didn't care about the truth or the law. He ordered his bodyguards to lock Alysia up until she agreed to the surgery, while her brother threatened to freeze her assets and seize her late mother's penthouse.
"You have no heart, Alysia. You don't deserve the Kent name," her aunt spat in disgust.
For lifetimes, she had kept her head down, taking the blame and sacrificing everything for a family that viewed her as nothing more than a disposable blood bag and a financial pawn.
The resignation that had clouded her eyes for so long vanished, replaced by the absolute, zero-degree cold of a glacier.
Ripping the IV from her hand and leaving her family in stunned silence, Alysia walked straight out of the hospital.
She had exactly forty-six hours to find a husband to secure her inheritance, and she knew exactly which ruthless billionaire CEO to target to help her burn the Kent family to the ground.
9.0
On their seventh wedding anniversary, Kiley's billionaire husband, Aden, slid a thick stack of papers across the restaurant table.
It was a petition for divorce.
He was leaving her for his college sweetheart. Thanks to a ruthless prenup, Kiley was being thrown out with absolutely nothing.
That very night, their young son Jules was rushed to the ER, bleeding profusely. The doctor's diagnosis was a death sentence: acute leukemia.
When Kiley frantically called Aden for help, he dismissed the emergency as a simple nosebleed.
"I'm not paying for this. Deal with it," Aden sneered, the sound of his mistress giggling in the background.
To force Kiley to sign the divorce papers, Aden froze all her credit cards and canceled their son's health insurance. He refused to pay a single cent for the chemotherapy.
Even Kiley's adoptive parents sided with the wealthy Aden, calling her a burden and telling her to stop fighting him.
Driven to the brink of despair, with a dying child and no money, Kiley didn't understand how a father could be so monstrous to his own flesh and blood.
Until a news article on a friend's phone caught her eye.
It featured a fallen 9/11 firefighter hero from the ultra-wealthy Whitfield family. The man in the photo looked exactly like Jules, down to the very bone structure.
Kiley's mind raced back to the fertility clinic and the anonymous sperm donor.
Could this dead billionaire hero be her son's biological father?
Looking at her sleeping, fragile boy, Kiley wiped her tears and crushed the divorce papers in her hand.
She was going to find the Whitfield family, save her son, and make Aden lose everything he held dear.
8.4
For three years, Sophia Carter was the perfect wife to billionaire CEO Alexander Kingsley. She loved him quietly while he treated her like a stranger.
When his first love suddenly returns, Sophia is falsely accused and thrown out of the Kingsley mansion with nothing but humiliation.
The divorce shatters her heart-but it also frees her.
What Alexander never knew was that Sophia was never ordinary. She was the hidden heiress of a powerful empire.
Three years later, she returns-richer, stronger, and untouchable.
Now the man who once discarded her is desperate to win her back.
But this time, the woman he abandoned is no longer the same girl.
And revenge has never looked so beautiful.
9.8
Adeline's stepmother had secretly drugged her for years, turning a child genius into a drooling, mentally disabled laughingstock just so her stepsister could steal her life.
But when her greedy father sold her off to Griffin Herring—a violent, untouchable billionaire psychopath—to save his company, things took a deadly turn.
Before the wedding, Griffin attacked her in a dark alley, nearly snapping her neck before stealing her grandfather's silver necklace.
That necklace held a micro-drive with her family's deepest secrets, and without it, she had nothing.
Back at the estate, her situation only worsened. Her stepsister Damaris paraded around in the Herring family's diamond engagement gifts, trying to force-feed Adeline wet dog food on an Instagram live stream.
When Adeline's calculated "clumsiness" ruined the video, her furious father locked her in a damp, rusted basement.
"Give her to the psycho," her stepmother hissed through the door. "Let him lock her away forever."
Listening from the shadows, Adeline's fists clenched until her palms bled.
Her supposed mental fog wasn't a tragedy—it was a calculated assassination of her mind. They had destroyed her childhood and were now throwing her to a monster just to keep the billions.
The dull, empty look in Adeline's eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a razor-sharp, chilling clarity.
She pulled a thin surgical needle from her messy bun and picked the heavy iron padlock in ten seconds. It was time to break into the billionaire's penthouse, take back her necklace, and tear them all apart.